Send Out The Clowns (Frank River Series) (14 page)

Frank woke with a start. He had reverted to an earlier habit
of waking at first light, bolting to a sitting position as if dawn was a
crashing Chinese gong reverberating through him causing his head to throb and
his chest to wrench like a twisted rope. The headaches were always from overuse
of alcohol, and the wrenching chest a form of guilt for wasting time by lying
in bed.

He hadn't experienced the rude awakening since he and Pauley
had gotten back together. He fought to clear his head. He couldn't remember
coming in from the balcony, but he must have. He was in bed with his clothes
on, and the quilted comforter was wrapped around him like a misshapen tortilla.
No need to look toward Pauley's side of the bed to see if she was there. When
she was in the apartment, he could feel her presence, an ethereal pulse
broadcasting her spirit. The room was clammy and hollow. He eased his legs over
the edge of the bed and placed his feet on the floor. He sat there waiting for
his head to finish protesting the subtle move.

When he felt he could stand without passing out, he stripped
off his clothes and padded into the bathroom. A long hot shower did wonders for
his recovery. A glance out the bedroom window told him it was a gray rainy day,
so he dressed in chinos, a blue button down shirt, a paisley tie, and
Wellington boots. He grabbed a waterproof windbreaker and headed for the
kitchen. Orange juice and coffee would have to do for breakfast. He drank a
tall glass of juice, standing in front of the open refrigerator before moving
to make a pot of coffee. The juice tasted wonderful, reviving his dehydrated
body tissues. He frowned at the slow working coffee pot, impatiently waiting
for it to be coffee, the magic elixir.

"Watched coffee pots never brew," he mumbled, and
went to the front door to retrieve the morning Chronicle. Unable to wait for
his coffee any longer, he pulled the carafe away and held a mug under the drip.
When it was full, he grimaced at the bubbles that splashed onto the hotplate
before he could replace the pot. The odor of the singed coffee made his
nostrils flare in protest, but he ignored the minor nuisance and took a sip of
the hot liquid as he walked to the table. Feeling more human now, he spread the
newspaper and cradled the warm mug in his hands. A headline below the fold
destroyed all hope that this would be a normal day.

BIZARRE CLOWN MURDERS STUMP HPD

The byline was Julia Brewster. Frank didn't go so far as to
label her a yellow journalist, but she was well known for her imaginative
portrayals of crime cases and vigorous disdain for law enforcement. Frank
scanned the article, deciding Brewster had gleaned the facts out of the press
releases and concocted her own wacky interpretation. Normally, Frank would find
such off the wall allusions amusing and ignore them, but Brewster had evidently
consulted a psychic and spent half the article quoting evidence from the
metaphysical realm.

He dug in the pantry for a stainless steel thermos, drained
the carafe into the bottle, shrugged into his jacket, folded the newspaper,
then grabbed his briefcase and the unfinished mug and bolted for the door. He
wanted to be snug in his office before Sumbitch came to work.

Rain made the commute treacherous. As usual, the early
morning traffic was a damn mess, and everyone trying to beat the rush only
served to make it worse. Frank drank coffee and fought the gridlock. Less than halfway
to his exit from I-10 he wished he'd used the bathroom before he left. Three
quarters into the trip, he began to worry about soiling his clothes. When I-10
merged with 1-45, he beat a tattoo on the steering wheel and squirmed in his
seat as he tightened his sphincter muscles and hummed, hoping he had the
wherewithal to make it inside the office building. "Oh Boy," he
declared out loud when he finally turned north onto North Main.

The drive had taken longer than he hoped, but there was no
sign Lieutenant Barker had arrived yet. Gerry's car was in the lot, which
surprised him, and Captain Holloman was obviously at work, which didn't.
Holloman had a reputation of never going home. The quintessential
over-achiever.

Frank pulled the briefcase after him as he yanked the door
lever and bolted from the car. He walked as fast as he could, holding the
briefcase over his head. He was afraid of running, for fear it might jolt his
bulging bladder into action. Fortunately, there was a men's room near the front
door. His wet shoes slipped on the waxed tile floor, making the last few yards
an act of painful determination.

When Frank pushed into the squad room, feeling relieved but
still hung over and several percentage points below his game, he was greeted by
Gerry's sparkling smile. Although he felt refreshed, he apparently still looked
bedraggled because his partner's smile drooped in sympathy.

"Tough night, Partner?"

"You might say that, but I'll live. It was one of my
unpredictable but periodic efforts to destroy myself by abusing my body with
alcohol."

"I take it things didn't go well with Paulette?"

"Hey, you couldn't be more wrong. We didn't have a
single disagreeable word."

Gerry decided not to press. She turned her attention back to
a cluttered desk. Several piles of folders were arranged next to each other,
with different colored post-its on the top of each pile.

"You look like you're getting ready for court,
Detective," Frank laughed, trying to sound humorous. Gerry sighed.

"The captain's called a major meeting for this morning.
He wants us to be ready to brief him on all we know about the clown case."
Richard Wallace Holloman had earned the rank of Captain by being a no nonsense
cop. Whenever he called a "major meeting," Frank knew he had better
be ready to answer penetrating questions. Holloman had no patience for whining
or excuses.

"He must have seen the morning Chronicle."

"No doubt about that. He was clenching his teeth so
hard, little pieces of enamel fell like snow."

"What time's the meeting?" "Open ended, but
soon after Sumbitch gets here." Frank glanced at the pile of folders.
"Looks like you've been busy. What do you need for me to do?"

"Come take a look. I'm pretty well organized here, but
I need your input."

Frank laid his briefcase on the table and stood by Gerry's
shoulder. She barely had time to open the first folder when Lieutenant Barker
burst into the squad room.

"Showtime," Barker shouted. "The captain
wants us in the conference room right away. I don't like this. We should have
had time to get our act together, but it's too late now."

Frank grabbed his briefcase. Gerry scooped up the folders
and they walked quickly out the door, down the hall and into the conference
room. Captain Holloman sat at the head of the hardwood maple table scarred by
cigarette burns and gouges from years of use as a forum of brainstorming and
anguished debate. Four other detectives were already seated around the table:
Arnold Grisham and his partner Aaron Fox sat two seats away from Holloman on
the right, and Olivia Stanton and George Foster sat across from them. Frank
took the seat on Holloman's left and Gerry sat beside him. Lieutenant Barker
sat on the captain's right.

Holloman's assistant Grace Villalobos was busy at a
sideboard in the corner making coffee. The cabinet matched the conference table
in color, age and utility, and supported a huge multi-cup percolator, an
assortment of cast-off mugs, and a tray heaped with pastries. Grace had been
with Holloman since he first came to the homicide division and her customary
seat would be next to Barker. Every detective was aware of her influence over
Holloman and the captain's loyalty to her. Many mused that Villalobos had more
power than the captain.

Grace turned from the credenza with a mug of coffee in her
hand and announced with an officious smile that if anyone wanted coffee, they
should fill their mugs before the meeting began. Chair legs scraped the vinyl
tiles covering the floor as the team moved to the refreshments, but no one
spoke. When they were all reseated and ready, Captain Holloman leaned back in
his chair and took measure of each officer's face.

"If you read the morning Chronicle, you know why we're
here. The 'Clown Case,' as it's being labeled, took on an entirely different
perspective when Julia Brewster decided to make it a brouhaha. We need to clear
up this situation ASAP. As of now, this group is designated as a task force
with Lieutenant Barker in charge. Detectives Rivers and Gardner are the lead
investigators, and the rest of you will supply any assistance necessary to
speed up a solution. I'll let Lieutenant Barker bring those of you that are new
to the investigation up to speed and then we'll hear from Rivers and Gardner.
Lieutenant."

Barker didn't stand, she leaned forward, resting her arms on
the table and apparently warming her hands around her coffee mug.

"I'm afraid we don't have very much. We're treating
these two homicides as early episodes in a serial event. Both bodies were found
in parking garages, dressed in clown suits with planted trappings of unknown
significance. Both victims were killed somewhere else and transported. Death
was the result of poison, and the bodies were gaffed post-mortem for the
alleged intent to cleanse the body of evidence. We've determined that each
victim was murdered in their residence and cleansed there, which may mean that
the victim knew his or her assailant. Both victims were comedians and worked
their last job at one of the local clubs owned by Reuben Rankin, namely the Ha
Ha House on Gray, and had performed at the Wit's End on Westheimer. Other than
minor details, that's it. Rivers and Gardner can fill you in from there."

"Detective Gardner and I have been working this case
from the beginning," Frank started. "Yesterday we worked different
leads and haven't had a chance to brief each other as to our individual
findings. I think the best way to cover what we know, is to play off each other
and field questions that anyone might have."

"Have you identified any relationship between the two
victims?" George Foster asked.

"None except the comedy clubs," Gerry answered.
"The first victim was an Asian-American of Vietnamese extraction, about 30
years old and a Houston native. He had worked with Rankin for several months
and had received an offer from Las Vegas a few days before he died. He seemed
to be an up and coming talent. The second victim was a white female of
approximately the same age, who's been bottom feeding the stand-up circuit for
years with little success. Her home is Albuquerque, New Mexico. As far as we know,
they never met each other."

"You say they were transported to the parking
garages," Olivia Stanton interjected. "How much time elapsed between
death and this transfer?"

"Our best guess is hours," Frank replied.
"With the first victim about twelve hours, and probably a little less with
the second."

"Any clue as to why the delay?"

"Opportunity is my guess," Frank responded.
"The perp wanted the body discovered in the early morning, and didn't want
to be disturbed while posing the scene. This guy's very meticulous. He's
careful to leave no tracks."

"I'm sure you did a web search for similar MOs of
serials," Aaron Fox stated.

"Of course," Frank answered. "Nothing."

"I don't think this is a serial killing per se,"
Gerry added. "I did at first, but there's a major difference."

"Oh, really," Barker responded. "That's new
to me."

"I know, Lieutenant," Gerry continued. "I
only got that idea early yesterday and didn't want to throw the investigation
off track with speculation, but the first victim got a dose of an exotic drug
derived from a tree known to grow only in the tropics, Cinchona ledgeriana, if
you want the Latin. The second victim was given an overdose of peyote extract.
Most people that OD on peyote are looking for spiritual illusions and don't
follow proper procedure. Peyote isn't classified as a poison."

"Hell," Fox exclaimed. "They're both organic,
both plants. I don't see where that's a divergence."

"Give her a chance, Aaron," Barker stated.
"This is Detective Gardner's first homicide case. Go on, Gerry."

Aaron Fox made an exaggerated gesture of a servant waving
his hand at his employer, indicating he would be quiet and listen.

"My sources on the street tell me there are some real
exotics drifting around: kukui haole or Barbados nut—that's jatrophin, also
atropine from Belladonna, coniine from hemlock, aconitine or monkshood, and
curare, but to name a few. These are all deadly extracts from plants and
although many have been used for treatment of diseases in some parts of the
world, they're all poisons rather than narcotics. Peyote's chemical base is
mescaline, an entirely different critter. What I gather is, these drugs are
being peddled by one distributor that street talk calls 'The Shaman Lily.'
Shaman because of the 'medicinal' application of the drugs, and Lily because
the distributor is a white woman."

"Can any of your sources ID this woman?" Barker
asked.

Gerry shook her head. "Sadly, no. I talked to several
last night who had met the main seller, but no one has met The Lily. My sources
claim that even the sellers have never met her face to face. They have drops,
and communicate by cell phone."

"So," Fox interrupted. "This Shaman Lily is
the doer?"

"Maybe. Or she may only be supplying the doer with the
drugs."

"I still like Rankin for the doer," Frank
responded. "I'm looking at the old connection of Rankin and the mobs, and
the fact that both victims worked in his clubs."

"Weren't these clubs under investigation as drug houses
a few years back?" George Foster asked.

Frank winced. "Yes," he answered.

"Have you looked into that?"